fic: the dice were loaded from the start (ai rpf, dcook/carrie)
Title: the dice were loaded from the start
Author: empressearwig
Pairing/Fandom: David Cook/Carrie Underwood, Carrie Underwood/Mike Fisher; American Idol RPF
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~3500
Disclaimer: I own nothing, this is all for fun. This hasn't happened. Probably. Etc.
Summary: Any special guests planned for the album? No, but you know what? Consider this my open invitation, anybody that wants to come help on this record, please come help. It'll be fun, I'll buy some beer. (Fun, angsty, same difference, right? Right.)
Author's Notes: This is entirely the fault of David Cook and irishmizzy. I hate you both. The interview referenced in the summary can be found here. For maximum heart-wrenching, I recommend listening to Matt Nathanson's cover of "Romeo and Juliet" on repeat-one while reading. You know, if you're into that kind of thing.
David's phone rings at seven o'clock in the morning. He groans and buries his head under his pillow. It's the day after St. Patrick's Day and he is not up for this. Not at all. He'll kill the person on the other end of the line later, for now he needs to sleep.
But wait. He raises the pillow from his face and just what the ring tone is finally sinks in. Cowboy Casanova. Carrie.
He fumbles for the phone on his nightstand, managing to grab it about two seconds before it clicks over to voicemail. "'ello?"
"David!" Carrie says, voice bright and cheerful, and it makes him want to smile because it's Carrie, even as he's pressing his palm against his forehead to try to stop the pounding.
"Do you know what time it is, Underwood?" he grumbles. "Or what day it is?"
"Er, no?" she says. "Tour. I'm not even sure where I am right now. It's early, isn't it? I'm sorry, you can call me back later if you want, it's --"
"No," he sighs, sitting up. "It's fine. But why are you calling me at," he squints down at the clock on his nightstand, "seven oh two in the morning?"
"It's that early?" He can almost see her wincing on the other end of the line. "I'm sorry, David. I didn't realize."
"It's fine."
"Still."
He laughs now. "Seriously, Carrie. What's up?" He tries to inject a leer into his voice. "Let me guess, you saw me on Idol last night and were so impressed you're finally going to ditch the hockey player and give me a chance." It's maybe dangerously close to what he wishes would happen, but this is what she expects from him. The least he can do is give it to her.
And sure enough, she laughs, right on cue. He ignores the little stabbing pain in his chest. "I'm sorry to say that I missed it, but if it was that good, I'll have to check it out," she teases back. "But no, I was calling because of something a little birdie forwarded to my attention..."
He's curious, he can admit it. He's allowed that. "I knew you had a google alert with my name on it."
She laughs again. "You wish."
He does. "So what was it?"
"'It'll be fun, I'll buy some beer'?"
He blinks. "What?"
"I'm hurt, David. I thought we were friends. And I have to invite myself to work with you?"
"Carrie, what are you talking about?" he asks, trying to remember. She's got to be talking about something he said recently, and -- oh. "The LA Times interview."
"Yep!" she says, and she sounds practically gleeful. "And I want to know why you didn't ask me to work with you, Mister 'consider this an open invitation.' Am I not good enough or something? I can provide references."
"What, do you have it sitting in front of you right now?" he mutters.
"Actually," she says, and he cuts her off.
"You're on tour."
"I am," she says, and he can almost see her nodding.
"You're planning a wedding."
"I am."
"You're busy turning into a movie star, and have I mentioned that I hate you for that?"
"I am. And no, you haven't."
"Consider it mentioned. When exactly did you think you were going to have time for me, Miss 'I don't even know what city I'm in right now'?"
There's a long pause, and then Carrie says forcefully, "I always have time for you. Always."
"Carrie," he sighs, feeling like complete shit. "I didn't mean it like --"
Now she cuts him off. "I know."
They're both silent. David scrubs his hands across his face and tries to think of a way he can fix this. The problem is -- and always has been -- that Carrie knows him too well to really let him get away with the crap that will work on everyone else. He thinks that he loves and hates her for it in equal measure.
"Hey," he says. "Knock, knock."
She laughs just a little and he grins. This is more like it. "Who's there?"
"Beets."
"Beets who?"
"Beets me!"
"David," she says. "That was terrible."
He nods. "I know." He waits a beat. "So you want to come have a beer with me, Carrie?"
It takes her a minute to get back on track. "Yes," she says. "Of course I do."
"Good."
"Good." She pauses. "I'm going to hang up now. I'll call you back later to set something up."
"Okay," he says. "Bye, Carrie."
"Bye, David."
He hears her hang up, and he drops the phone back onto his nightstand. He pulls the pillow back over his head and tries to fall asleep.
It takes a really long time.
***
When David tells Neal that he's going to work on something with Carrie, Neal just looks at him and shakes his head.
He hates that Neal has a point.
***
Finding time to work with Carrie is nearly impossible. Her tour has her criss-crossing the country, and he's heading off to Africa for Idol, and it seems like they're destined to never be in the same place at the same time. They talk about writing over ichat or the phone, but it's not really a process that either of them enjoy, so the idea is scrapped almost as soon as it's brought up. If they're going to do this, they're going to do it together.
They settle on the week of Idol Gives Back. Carrie's tour has a week long break so she can do the show, and he'll be in L.A. for rehearsals. It's the perfect time. It's the only time.
He just wishes that he knew if he was looking forward to it or dreading it. He thinks it's a little bit of both.
***
Carrie shows up on his doorstep bright and early Monday morning. She brings coffee. David offers her one of the bagels Neal brought with him.
Neal can probably stop him from making an utter ass out of himself. Besides, watching Neal and Carrie feel each other out is a constant source of amusement for David. Maybe it's not big of him, but he's got to do what he's got to do to make it through this writing session. If that's watching his couldn't be more different friends interact, so be it.
Most of the morning is spent starting and stopping. He'll play a snippet of a melody that's in his head, and Carrie will wrinkle her nose and shake her head or Neal will make a suggestion and David will say "hell no" or Carrie will scribble some lyrics down on her notepad and pass them to Neal and Neal will look up and say, "I'm not singing that. Ever." It's not what anyone would call productive.
Despite that, David's having fun. He hasn't actually gotten to see Carrie in awhile, and he somehow forgot how easy it is to actually be with her. By mid-morning, they're sitting hip to hip on the couch, and she's stolen his baseball cap and tucked her hair up underneath it in a messy ponytail, and he thinks that it's only the sight of the massive rock on her left hand that's stopping him from taking her face in his hands and kissing her until they're both gasping for breath. It's certainly not Neal.
This is what David had been afraid would happen. He's not good at controlling what he feels for Carrie when they're on opposite sides of the country; he has no chance when they're sitting in the same room, practically on top of each other.
It's almost a relief when they break for lunch and for an afternoon of rehearsals at the Nokia. They'll pick the writing back up after, and David hopes that being surrounded by other people will help him get whatever this is under control.
He doesn't actually think that will happen. He doesn't have that kind of luck. Especially not where Carrie's concerned.
***
Rehearsals go well; they're both old pros at this by now. They get in, get done, and before he knows it, they're back at his house, this time without Neal. It'll be fine, David thinks. He's a big boy. Carrie's a big girl, and besides, she doesn't think about him like that. He needs to stop worrying so much. Maybe that's why they aren't getting anywhere with what they're supposed to be doing, actually writing a song.
If nothing else the six-pack he picked up on the way back to the house should help. He just needs to mind the line between social lubricant and drunken confessions of love. Stepping over it would be a disaster.
He opens two beers and passes one to Carrie. He takes a long drink from his own and just watches her for a second. Standing there in jeans and a t-shirt, tennis shoes and his baseball cap, she looks so normal. Like she could be any other girl and he could be any other boy. She lifts her own bottle to her lips and her ring catches the light, and the illusion shatters. Any other girl would not have an engagement ring the size of a small planet weighing down their hand.
She catches him staring. "What?" she asks self-consciously, lifting a hand to her cheek. "Do I have something on my face or --"
He shakes his head.
The corners of her mouth turn up in a quizzical smile. "What then?"
He's not really sure what he's supposed to say. So he shrugs and says, "Nothing. I was just --" He shrugs again, helplessly. "You know."
She nods like she understands, even though there's no way she does. "Thinking of the next great American rock song, right? Let's hear it, Mr. Cook."
Well. No pressure then. He takes another long drink and sets the bottle aside. He picks up his guitar. She's watching him closely, eyes shaded under the brim of his cap, toe tapping restlessly against the floor. He closes his eyes. He starts to play.
One chord, then another. He picks out a melody slowly, deliberately, note after note.
He keeps his eyes closed.
He's not sure if he's played for ten seconds or ten minutes when Carrie stops him. "David," she says, and it's the hint of urgency he hears in her voice that makes him open his eyes.
He blinks the room back into focus, and Carrie's sitting where she was before, but now she's practically beaming at him, smile stretched wide across her face and barely contained glee thrumming through her body.
"You liked it," he says, trying not to get too optimistic. Even if she did, it's just a start, there's more to be done -- screw it, he thinks. He wants her to have liked it. He needs for her to have liked it.
She nods, smile somehow getting bigger. "I loved it. You have to listen to it, it's perfect." He shoots her an incredulous look, and she just holds up her hands in front of her. "Really. It is. I swear."
He laughs. God, he feels good right now. "I should write with you more often. Neal never uses the word perfect."
"Pfft," she says. "What does he know?"
"How to kill me several times over." He picks up his beer. "Let's listen to the playback."
Carrie hits play. He closes his eyes again and lets the music wash over him. He starts to smile. She was right, he realizes. It is perfect.
He opens his eyes and smiles at her. She smiles back. So is this.
***
Three hours and four more beers later (three for him, one for her), the song is reasonably finished. They're still arguing about the lyrics to the second verse and little things in the bridge, but in the grand scheme of things the song is done. She'll come back tomorrow morning to record the demo, but that's really it.
They're back to sitting hip to hip on the couch, and Carrie's body feels like a furnace against his, burning his skin everywhere they're touching. He knows that he should get up, move, leave, something, because everything he feels for her is pulsing just beneath the surface and it wouldn't take much for it to come spilling out. It would only embarrass them both.
Carrie breaks the lingering silence. "I'm glad we did this."
He looks down at her and smiles. "Me, too."
She gives him the quick grin that he loves so much and pulls off his baseball cap, sending her hair tumbling down around her shoulders. She combs through it with her fingers, and he watches it glint, golden, in the half dark light. The urge to reach out and touch is strong.
It would be so easy, he thinks. To give in and touch. To taste. To satisfy his curiousity, to see if this thing that he's spent so much time imagining exists on both sides. If he's not alone in what he feels for her, in wanting --
Carrie snaps her fingers in front of his face.
He blinks. "What?"
"Where did you go?" she asks curiously, tucking a leg up underneath her. He doesn't notice her leaning closer against him. Much.
He really needs to snap out of it. Move away. But he knows there's absolutely no chance of that. Not tonight. Maybe there never was.
"David?"
He kisses her. He feels her small noise of surprise against his lips and starts to pull away, but then she's kissing him back and there's no chance in hell that he's stopping. She curls a hand around his neck; he settles one low on her hip. He changes the angle of the kiss, his beard scraping across the softness of her skin. She moans, low in her throat, and he swallows the sound. Revels in it.
His head is swimming. He can't think of anything but her, can't think at all.
He presses her back into the cushions of the couch and she fists a hand in his shirt, pulling him down on top of her. Her other hand slips around to his back, the stroke of her fingertips against his skin burning like a brand. She tugs at the hem of his shirt; he takes the hint and pulls it over his head. Her nails scrape against his chest and he bites back a groan. He slides his hands up her chest, the fabric of her shirt bunching under his hands as he pushes it up. She raises her arms to help, he tosses it to the side. He kisses her again, bare skin against bare skin. Someone moans. He doesn't know who.
Her skin is smooth against his calloused hands. With every touch, every kiss, he's learning her body, learning how to play her just like he learned to play guitar all those years ago. A brush of his fingers against her hip makes her arch into him; when he kisses her neck, his beard rough against her skin, she moans. He runs his tongue along the lace edge of her bra, and she fists a hand in his hair, pulling him closer.
She wraps a leg around his hip and he presses against her, hard against soft. He moans her name and kisses her again, pouring the words he's trying desperately not to say into the kiss. Every stroke of his tongue against hers is a declaration, every brush of his lips on hers an I love you. What he cannot tell her, he will show her. This may be the only chance he ever has to show her.
She pushes at him, flipping them, her legs straddling his hips, her hair cascading across his chest as she presses kisses into his skin. She traces his tattoo with her tongue and he jerks against her. He thinks he feels her laugh as she grinds back down against him. He didn't know she had an evil streak; it makes him want her more.
He fumbles with the button of her jeans, his fingers clumsy in their haste. He draws the zipper down and slides his hand under the denim, to the lace beneath. She's already wet. He strokes her through the lace and she bites down on his neck. He half hopes she's marked him; that way he'll know tomorrow that this was real.
Then they're both scrambling to undress, eager to shed the rest of their clothes. He digs in his pocket for his wallet, drawing out the condom he keeps there. She watches him, eyes wide and dark, and when he turns to her, she pushes him back down on the couch and kisses him. There is no longer any uncertainty; this is going to happen.
He slips one finger in her, then another. She rocks against him and he moves faster. He presses his thumb against her clit and her breath hitches. He watches her face and sees the moment when she comes apart, clenching against his fingers. He thinks it might be the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.
They kiss gently, languidly, while she comes back to herself. His hands trace along her body, memorizing the curves and planes, the slope of her shoulders and the way he can span her waist with his hands. He doesn't think he could ever get tired of touching her; he knows he will not have the chance.
She strokes him once, twice, and he can't help but moan. She reaches for the condom and tears open the package, rolling it onto him slowly. He wants to tell her to hurry and he never wants her to stop. When she sinks down on top of him, he groans her name.
They move together, seeking completion in the darkened studio. She moves more quickly, he slips a hand between their bodies to find her. She breathes out his name on a broken moan as she comes, and her name is on his lips as he follows.
She rolls off him and curls into his side. He gets rid of the condom and wraps her in his arms. He whispers I love you's against her hair. She pretends not to hear them.
He falls asleep with her lying next to him. He knows she won't be there when he wakes.
***
The studio is dark and Carrie is gone.
He finds a note on top of his guitar that says "I'm sorry." He doesn't notice as it crumples in his fist.
***
She shows up on his doorstep in the morning, right on time. She brings coffee again. When she hands one to him, their fingers brush. He sees a flicker of guilt in her eyes. He doesn't know if it's for leaving or for what they did. He finds that he doesn't care which it is.
He thinks it is the only sign that anything has changed between them. He's wrong.
***
When she leaves, Neal turns to him and asks, "Was it worth it?"
David nods, not sure what Neal saw, but not surprised he saw it.
Neal pats him awkwardly on the back as he leaves the studio. David has never deserved pity less.
He knew what he was getting into.
***
He's sitting two rows behind her at the show that night.
He tries to watch the kids on stage singing like their lives are on the line, but his gaze keeps drifting back to the blonde head sitting in front of him.
She brings her left hand up to tuck a curl behind her ear, and he looks away. He doesn't want to see Mike's ring on her finger.
***
At the show the next night, he corners her in her dressing room, crowding her back against the door. He kisses her. It's sharp, a little angry. He bites at her lower lip, punishing her for what she will not do, what he knew she wouldn't do. Maybe he's punishing himself, too.
She kisses him back the same way, pulling at his hair, his clothes. She trails her lips down his throat and bites down where she had two nights before. He welcomes the pain.
There's a knock on the door; they spring apart. He leaves first this time. He discovers it doesn't feel any better this way.
He watches her perform from the audience and thinks that maybe that was the point.
***
The invitation to her wedding arrives two weeks later.
He RSVPs yes.
Author: empressearwig
Pairing/Fandom: David Cook/Carrie Underwood, Carrie Underwood/Mike Fisher; American Idol RPF
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~3500
Disclaimer: I own nothing, this is all for fun. This hasn't happened. Probably. Etc.
Summary: Any special guests planned for the album? No, but you know what? Consider this my open invitation, anybody that wants to come help on this record, please come help. It'll be fun, I'll buy some beer. (Fun, angsty, same difference, right? Right.)
Author's Notes: This is entirely the fault of David Cook and irishmizzy. I hate you both. The interview referenced in the summary can be found here. For maximum heart-wrenching, I recommend listening to Matt Nathanson's cover of "Romeo and Juliet" on repeat-one while reading. You know, if you're into that kind of thing.
David's phone rings at seven o'clock in the morning. He groans and buries his head under his pillow. It's the day after St. Patrick's Day and he is not up for this. Not at all. He'll kill the person on the other end of the line later, for now he needs to sleep.
But wait. He raises the pillow from his face and just what the ring tone is finally sinks in. Cowboy Casanova. Carrie.
He fumbles for the phone on his nightstand, managing to grab it about two seconds before it clicks over to voicemail. "'ello?"
"David!" Carrie says, voice bright and cheerful, and it makes him want to smile because it's Carrie, even as he's pressing his palm against his forehead to try to stop the pounding.
"Do you know what time it is, Underwood?" he grumbles. "Or what day it is?"
"Er, no?" she says. "Tour. I'm not even sure where I am right now. It's early, isn't it? I'm sorry, you can call me back later if you want, it's --"
"No," he sighs, sitting up. "It's fine. But why are you calling me at," he squints down at the clock on his nightstand, "seven oh two in the morning?"
"It's that early?" He can almost see her wincing on the other end of the line. "I'm sorry, David. I didn't realize."
"It's fine."
"Still."
He laughs now. "Seriously, Carrie. What's up?" He tries to inject a leer into his voice. "Let me guess, you saw me on Idol last night and were so impressed you're finally going to ditch the hockey player and give me a chance." It's maybe dangerously close to what he wishes would happen, but this is what she expects from him. The least he can do is give it to her.
And sure enough, she laughs, right on cue. He ignores the little stabbing pain in his chest. "I'm sorry to say that I missed it, but if it was that good, I'll have to check it out," she teases back. "But no, I was calling because of something a little birdie forwarded to my attention..."
He's curious, he can admit it. He's allowed that. "I knew you had a google alert with my name on it."
She laughs again. "You wish."
He does. "So what was it?"
"'It'll be fun, I'll buy some beer'?"
He blinks. "What?"
"I'm hurt, David. I thought we were friends. And I have to invite myself to work with you?"
"Carrie, what are you talking about?" he asks, trying to remember. She's got to be talking about something he said recently, and -- oh. "The LA Times interview."
"Yep!" she says, and she sounds practically gleeful. "And I want to know why you didn't ask me to work with you, Mister 'consider this an open invitation.' Am I not good enough or something? I can provide references."
"What, do you have it sitting in front of you right now?" he mutters.
"Actually," she says, and he cuts her off.
"You're on tour."
"I am," she says, and he can almost see her nodding.
"You're planning a wedding."
"I am."
"You're busy turning into a movie star, and have I mentioned that I hate you for that?"
"I am. And no, you haven't."
"Consider it mentioned. When exactly did you think you were going to have time for me, Miss 'I don't even know what city I'm in right now'?"
There's a long pause, and then Carrie says forcefully, "I always have time for you. Always."
"Carrie," he sighs, feeling like complete shit. "I didn't mean it like --"
Now she cuts him off. "I know."
They're both silent. David scrubs his hands across his face and tries to think of a way he can fix this. The problem is -- and always has been -- that Carrie knows him too well to really let him get away with the crap that will work on everyone else. He thinks that he loves and hates her for it in equal measure.
"Hey," he says. "Knock, knock."
She laughs just a little and he grins. This is more like it. "Who's there?"
"Beets."
"Beets who?"
"Beets me!"
"David," she says. "That was terrible."
He nods. "I know." He waits a beat. "So you want to come have a beer with me, Carrie?"
It takes her a minute to get back on track. "Yes," she says. "Of course I do."
"Good."
"Good." She pauses. "I'm going to hang up now. I'll call you back later to set something up."
"Okay," he says. "Bye, Carrie."
"Bye, David."
He hears her hang up, and he drops the phone back onto his nightstand. He pulls the pillow back over his head and tries to fall asleep.
It takes a really long time.
***
When David tells Neal that he's going to work on something with Carrie, Neal just looks at him and shakes his head.
He hates that Neal has a point.
***
Finding time to work with Carrie is nearly impossible. Her tour has her criss-crossing the country, and he's heading off to Africa for Idol, and it seems like they're destined to never be in the same place at the same time. They talk about writing over ichat or the phone, but it's not really a process that either of them enjoy, so the idea is scrapped almost as soon as it's brought up. If they're going to do this, they're going to do it together.
They settle on the week of Idol Gives Back. Carrie's tour has a week long break so she can do the show, and he'll be in L.A. for rehearsals. It's the perfect time. It's the only time.
He just wishes that he knew if he was looking forward to it or dreading it. He thinks it's a little bit of both.
***
Carrie shows up on his doorstep bright and early Monday morning. She brings coffee. David offers her one of the bagels Neal brought with him.
Neal can probably stop him from making an utter ass out of himself. Besides, watching Neal and Carrie feel each other out is a constant source of amusement for David. Maybe it's not big of him, but he's got to do what he's got to do to make it through this writing session. If that's watching his couldn't be more different friends interact, so be it.
Most of the morning is spent starting and stopping. He'll play a snippet of a melody that's in his head, and Carrie will wrinkle her nose and shake her head or Neal will make a suggestion and David will say "hell no" or Carrie will scribble some lyrics down on her notepad and pass them to Neal and Neal will look up and say, "I'm not singing that. Ever." It's not what anyone would call productive.
Despite that, David's having fun. He hasn't actually gotten to see Carrie in awhile, and he somehow forgot how easy it is to actually be with her. By mid-morning, they're sitting hip to hip on the couch, and she's stolen his baseball cap and tucked her hair up underneath it in a messy ponytail, and he thinks that it's only the sight of the massive rock on her left hand that's stopping him from taking her face in his hands and kissing her until they're both gasping for breath. It's certainly not Neal.
This is what David had been afraid would happen. He's not good at controlling what he feels for Carrie when they're on opposite sides of the country; he has no chance when they're sitting in the same room, practically on top of each other.
It's almost a relief when they break for lunch and for an afternoon of rehearsals at the Nokia. They'll pick the writing back up after, and David hopes that being surrounded by other people will help him get whatever this is under control.
He doesn't actually think that will happen. He doesn't have that kind of luck. Especially not where Carrie's concerned.
***
Rehearsals go well; they're both old pros at this by now. They get in, get done, and before he knows it, they're back at his house, this time without Neal. It'll be fine, David thinks. He's a big boy. Carrie's a big girl, and besides, she doesn't think about him like that. He needs to stop worrying so much. Maybe that's why they aren't getting anywhere with what they're supposed to be doing, actually writing a song.
If nothing else the six-pack he picked up on the way back to the house should help. He just needs to mind the line between social lubricant and drunken confessions of love. Stepping over it would be a disaster.
He opens two beers and passes one to Carrie. He takes a long drink from his own and just watches her for a second. Standing there in jeans and a t-shirt, tennis shoes and his baseball cap, she looks so normal. Like she could be any other girl and he could be any other boy. She lifts her own bottle to her lips and her ring catches the light, and the illusion shatters. Any other girl would not have an engagement ring the size of a small planet weighing down their hand.
She catches him staring. "What?" she asks self-consciously, lifting a hand to her cheek. "Do I have something on my face or --"
He shakes his head.
The corners of her mouth turn up in a quizzical smile. "What then?"
He's not really sure what he's supposed to say. So he shrugs and says, "Nothing. I was just --" He shrugs again, helplessly. "You know."
She nods like she understands, even though there's no way she does. "Thinking of the next great American rock song, right? Let's hear it, Mr. Cook."
Well. No pressure then. He takes another long drink and sets the bottle aside. He picks up his guitar. She's watching him closely, eyes shaded under the brim of his cap, toe tapping restlessly against the floor. He closes his eyes. He starts to play.
One chord, then another. He picks out a melody slowly, deliberately, note after note.
He keeps his eyes closed.
He's not sure if he's played for ten seconds or ten minutes when Carrie stops him. "David," she says, and it's the hint of urgency he hears in her voice that makes him open his eyes.
He blinks the room back into focus, and Carrie's sitting where she was before, but now she's practically beaming at him, smile stretched wide across her face and barely contained glee thrumming through her body.
"You liked it," he says, trying not to get too optimistic. Even if she did, it's just a start, there's more to be done -- screw it, he thinks. He wants her to have liked it. He needs for her to have liked it.
She nods, smile somehow getting bigger. "I loved it. You have to listen to it, it's perfect." He shoots her an incredulous look, and she just holds up her hands in front of her. "Really. It is. I swear."
He laughs. God, he feels good right now. "I should write with you more often. Neal never uses the word perfect."
"Pfft," she says. "What does he know?"
"How to kill me several times over." He picks up his beer. "Let's listen to the playback."
Carrie hits play. He closes his eyes again and lets the music wash over him. He starts to smile. She was right, he realizes. It is perfect.
He opens his eyes and smiles at her. She smiles back. So is this.
***
Three hours and four more beers later (three for him, one for her), the song is reasonably finished. They're still arguing about the lyrics to the second verse and little things in the bridge, but in the grand scheme of things the song is done. She'll come back tomorrow morning to record the demo, but that's really it.
They're back to sitting hip to hip on the couch, and Carrie's body feels like a furnace against his, burning his skin everywhere they're touching. He knows that he should get up, move, leave, something, because everything he feels for her is pulsing just beneath the surface and it wouldn't take much for it to come spilling out. It would only embarrass them both.
Carrie breaks the lingering silence. "I'm glad we did this."
He looks down at her and smiles. "Me, too."
She gives him the quick grin that he loves so much and pulls off his baseball cap, sending her hair tumbling down around her shoulders. She combs through it with her fingers, and he watches it glint, golden, in the half dark light. The urge to reach out and touch is strong.
It would be so easy, he thinks. To give in and touch. To taste. To satisfy his curiousity, to see if this thing that he's spent so much time imagining exists on both sides. If he's not alone in what he feels for her, in wanting --
Carrie snaps her fingers in front of his face.
He blinks. "What?"
"Where did you go?" she asks curiously, tucking a leg up underneath her. He doesn't notice her leaning closer against him. Much.
He really needs to snap out of it. Move away. But he knows there's absolutely no chance of that. Not tonight. Maybe there never was.
"David?"
He kisses her. He feels her small noise of surprise against his lips and starts to pull away, but then she's kissing him back and there's no chance in hell that he's stopping. She curls a hand around his neck; he settles one low on her hip. He changes the angle of the kiss, his beard scraping across the softness of her skin. She moans, low in her throat, and he swallows the sound. Revels in it.
His head is swimming. He can't think of anything but her, can't think at all.
He presses her back into the cushions of the couch and she fists a hand in his shirt, pulling him down on top of her. Her other hand slips around to his back, the stroke of her fingertips against his skin burning like a brand. She tugs at the hem of his shirt; he takes the hint and pulls it over his head. Her nails scrape against his chest and he bites back a groan. He slides his hands up her chest, the fabric of her shirt bunching under his hands as he pushes it up. She raises her arms to help, he tosses it to the side. He kisses her again, bare skin against bare skin. Someone moans. He doesn't know who.
Her skin is smooth against his calloused hands. With every touch, every kiss, he's learning her body, learning how to play her just like he learned to play guitar all those years ago. A brush of his fingers against her hip makes her arch into him; when he kisses her neck, his beard rough against her skin, she moans. He runs his tongue along the lace edge of her bra, and she fists a hand in his hair, pulling him closer.
She wraps a leg around his hip and he presses against her, hard against soft. He moans her name and kisses her again, pouring the words he's trying desperately not to say into the kiss. Every stroke of his tongue against hers is a declaration, every brush of his lips on hers an I love you. What he cannot tell her, he will show her. This may be the only chance he ever has to show her.
She pushes at him, flipping them, her legs straddling his hips, her hair cascading across his chest as she presses kisses into his skin. She traces his tattoo with her tongue and he jerks against her. He thinks he feels her laugh as she grinds back down against him. He didn't know she had an evil streak; it makes him want her more.
He fumbles with the button of her jeans, his fingers clumsy in their haste. He draws the zipper down and slides his hand under the denim, to the lace beneath. She's already wet. He strokes her through the lace and she bites down on his neck. He half hopes she's marked him; that way he'll know tomorrow that this was real.
Then they're both scrambling to undress, eager to shed the rest of their clothes. He digs in his pocket for his wallet, drawing out the condom he keeps there. She watches him, eyes wide and dark, and when he turns to her, she pushes him back down on the couch and kisses him. There is no longer any uncertainty; this is going to happen.
He slips one finger in her, then another. She rocks against him and he moves faster. He presses his thumb against her clit and her breath hitches. He watches her face and sees the moment when she comes apart, clenching against his fingers. He thinks it might be the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.
They kiss gently, languidly, while she comes back to herself. His hands trace along her body, memorizing the curves and planes, the slope of her shoulders and the way he can span her waist with his hands. He doesn't think he could ever get tired of touching her; he knows he will not have the chance.
She strokes him once, twice, and he can't help but moan. She reaches for the condom and tears open the package, rolling it onto him slowly. He wants to tell her to hurry and he never wants her to stop. When she sinks down on top of him, he groans her name.
They move together, seeking completion in the darkened studio. She moves more quickly, he slips a hand between their bodies to find her. She breathes out his name on a broken moan as she comes, and her name is on his lips as he follows.
She rolls off him and curls into his side. He gets rid of the condom and wraps her in his arms. He whispers I love you's against her hair. She pretends not to hear them.
He falls asleep with her lying next to him. He knows she won't be there when he wakes.
***
The studio is dark and Carrie is gone.
He finds a note on top of his guitar that says "I'm sorry." He doesn't notice as it crumples in his fist.
***
She shows up on his doorstep in the morning, right on time. She brings coffee again. When she hands one to him, their fingers brush. He sees a flicker of guilt in her eyes. He doesn't know if it's for leaving or for what they did. He finds that he doesn't care which it is.
He thinks it is the only sign that anything has changed between them. He's wrong.
***
When she leaves, Neal turns to him and asks, "Was it worth it?"
David nods, not sure what Neal saw, but not surprised he saw it.
Neal pats him awkwardly on the back as he leaves the studio. David has never deserved pity less.
He knew what he was getting into.
***
He's sitting two rows behind her at the show that night.
He tries to watch the kids on stage singing like their lives are on the line, but his gaze keeps drifting back to the blonde head sitting in front of him.
She brings her left hand up to tuck a curl behind her ear, and he looks away. He doesn't want to see Mike's ring on her finger.
***
At the show the next night, he corners her in her dressing room, crowding her back against the door. He kisses her. It's sharp, a little angry. He bites at her lower lip, punishing her for what she will not do, what he knew she wouldn't do. Maybe he's punishing himself, too.
She kisses him back the same way, pulling at his hair, his clothes. She trails her lips down his throat and bites down where she had two nights before. He welcomes the pain.
There's a knock on the door; they spring apart. He leaves first this time. He discovers it doesn't feel any better this way.
He watches her perform from the audience and thinks that maybe that was the point.
***
The invitation to her wedding arrives two weeks later.
He RSVPs yes.